


A Gambling Problem

by angelblack3



Series: We're All A Little Mad Here [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Alternate Universe - Dark, Aphrodisiacs, Bondage, M/M, So Dub Con it's Non Con, Toys, dark!Sherlock, threats of rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:37:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/pseuds/angelblack3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John overestimates himself. Sherlock makes it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [A Gambling Problem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10333841) by [ad50302742](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ad50302742/pseuds/ad50302742)



> You don't have to read the 50k fic that's the start of all of this, but it would probably clear up a few things. Like how evil Sherlock is. And how John ended up here in the first place. No one's forcing you though! Read on and enjoy/cringe!
> 
> For those of you that thought John got off easily, he really, _really_ didn't. 
> 
> (Please disregard my blatant ignorance of drug use. Huge block of salt for this one, sorry.)
> 
> *EDIT*
> 
> Went back and redid the whole Mary thing because WOW that's not something a social worker would do. Thank you for those who were very polite about pointing that out! (Not that anyone was rude, but you certainly could have been, but you refrained because you guys are awesome!)

There has only been one time that John tried to deny Sherlock sex. It was the first and last time he tried. 

It had started on a normal night at a pub. 

John had been pushing for an evening out for some time. He's allowed to go on walks alone now, but the recently implanted chip in his shoulder takes away all pretense of privacy. He's allowed time at the park, and getting food for the flat. But there is always a certain length he is supposed to be out, and any deviation from his usual path results in the agreed upon penalties. Straying from his routine would be breaking their deal after all. The one that Sherlock insists is so _generous_. 

So it had taken some heavy handed bargaining, but John finally got Sherlock to agree. Being a bit more complacent when it comes to requests for future experimentation, and spending less time outside (none at all) for a week were his successful betting chips. Sherlock's other stipulation was that he would tag along, which he expected, but it isn't until they're in the cab that John realizes how strictly his sociability is going to be monitored.

"I've talked with the owner, and thanks to a mysterious rise in his bank accounts, he's agreed to section off a small portion of the pub for us."

John is startled from his thoughts. Sherlock has barely said a word all day, his attention entirely on his phone. John hadn't asked what had kept him so riveted. With Sherlock, ignorance really is a blessing. The last time he'd seen him so zoned out, John had read something about a failed terrorist cell take down in the papers the next week. The issue of talking about Sherlock's work has never been brought up between them, but it is certainly implied that John would much rather be left in the dark. Sherlock's words fully sink in, and John is understandably indignant. 

"Sherlock, we're not spending a night out at a pub just so we're isolated from other people." Silver eyes flick to John, finally turning away from the glowing screen.

"Yes," Sherlock says slowly, like John is being dull on purpose, "we are. It's what we agreed on."

John shakes his head, "No, no it's not at all. Really not." 

"You said you wanted to go to a pub, and that's what we're doing. Why should we be involved with other people at all?"

"Because I said I wanted to go _out_ Sherlock. As in mingle? As in even passably interact with a group of folks I've never seen before?" John sees the possessive flash in Sherlock's eyes and is prepared for the next statement.

"And why should I let you _interact_ with others at all? People are boring, dull. You see one mindless horde of sheep you've seen them all. What could possibly be the appeal of letting them divert your attention away from me?"

John would be concerned about having this discussion in front of the cabbie, if he wasn't absolutely certain that Sherlock has somehow paid all of them off to recognize the pair of them and keep their mouths shut. They could probably openly talk about how John hasn't had a thought to himself since Sherlock kidnapped him, and the man behind the wheel wouldn't even bat an eye. 

John's coping mechanism for anger is usually caustic sarcasm, but that would be a very dangerous game to play. What he wants to say is that it's better to just exchange pleasantries with a moron than to have a genius psychopath's full attention. But that would certainly put a stop to the evening, and possibly have John chained to their bed with a gag in his mouth for a week. Again. 

So instead, in a flash of insight, he says, "You could impress me."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, "Sorry?" 

"Yeah, I know that your definition of 'people watching' probably isn't the usual. I still remember the night you deduced that I'd been to Afghanistan." God, does he ever. He still remembers how naive he'd been. How he'd felt the thrum of wonder at this complete stranger who knew his whole life's story because he had a limp and a tan. "So, we can both win. I'll technically be acceptably observing strangers from a place that's not our flat window, and you won't be bored."

John waits for Sherlock's response, braces for rejection, and receives a wry, "You really should have gone into politics. Mycroft would _seethe_ to know how well you perform with manipulation." 

John looks at him in confusion, and it just occurs to Sherlock that John has never heard his brother's name before. He turns to face the window, an obvious dismissal of the conversation. John doesn't push it. When they pull up to the pub, Sherlock finally gives him a straight answer, "Fine, we'll just have a booth to ourselves. If any of them approach us and attempt to start a conversation, I will loudly proclaim their darkest secrets for the whole establishment. That will probably not endear you to coming back at any point in the near future. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," John slides out of the cab, chalking this up up to his win. It's not exactly "mingling", but he'll take what he can get. Not like he has a choice anyway. If all goes well tonight, he might even get Sherlock into a weekly outing. Which could lead to lone expeditions, if he's careful and behaves. John grimaces at what his life has become.

John pulls open the faded green door, and it's something like reverse culture shock. He's been around groups of people before, of course. Busy days at the park, sales at Tesco's. But this is different. This is people without a real purpose. No meet ups, no straightforward searches of the best kind of biscuit. Just people, here to forget individual troubles by drinking a pint and watching the game. John's breath gets stuck somewhere in his throat from the overload of it all. 

"You're gaping like a fish, it's unbecoming," Sherlock murmurs in his ear. John's jaw snaps shut. Sherlock ushers him forward with a hand on his back. John steps forward, towards the empty booth in the corner. It has a perfect view of the whole establishment, and is slightly dimmed to give the impression of privacy. John doesn't miss the small wave of dismissal Sherlock gives to the flustered button-up man that was headed in their direction. The owner doesn't seem t know what to do with himself, so he just steps back into the room that was apparently supposed to be theirs. Not for the first time, John wonders just how extensive Sherlock's reach is, and how much money he's got lining the various pockets of London. The Beatles "Can't Buy Me Love" flickers through his mind, and John represses a smirk.

They sit down in their little corner, Sherlock sitting close to John in the booth. Above their heads is a television that neither are paying attention to. A waiter floats by, and John orders himself a pint while Sherlock glares at nothing. John's glad that ordering isn't a breach of their agreement. No one says anything, and when John's drink is set on the table, he takes a tentative sip. Sherlock's fingers drum on the table, and John knows what's coming. Pretty soon the acidic remarks will come pouring forth from those lips, and John won't get a moment's respite. Like a bomb, he needs to diffuse this the quickest way possible. 

He nods over to a couple at another booth and asks, "What can you tell me about them?"

Sherlock stops his tapping to look at the indicated pair and mutters a quick, "She's cheating on him," before going back to his rhythm. Clearly, John needs to step this up a little bit. 

The right words come easily enough. From what John can tell, they're a perfectly happy couple. "How can you tell? They seem fine to me." 

Sherlock sighs, long and suffering, and says, "Her bracelet is new, and expensive. Obviously something that she can't afford going by the state of her handbag. Could have been a gift splurged by her boyfriend, except that she keeps covering it with her hand and rubbing it nervously. She's worried that he's going to notice something's off about it. That it's real and that he's never seen her wear it before. So she tries to keep his attention diverted away from it. If he had bought it for her, she would have worn it proudly. So, a pricey gift that she doesn't want him to get suspicious about. Conclusion, there's another, much richer, lover. It's a testament to her stupidity that she didn't just keep it hidden in her jewelry box, unless she's harboring an unconscious desire for him to find out on his own and end the relationship without her having to break it to him. Sentiment." Sherlock sneers the word like it leaves crude oil on his tongue. 

John blinks, and mutters a "Huh." He thought he would have to fake his amazement, but it's there. No matter how much he wishes it wasn't. He looks at Sherlock, and apparently his silent praise was heard all the same. The man's staring at him, searching his face for false wonder. When he sees that John is being sincere, he manages a small smile. John swallows, and searches the pub for someone else.

For a good hour, this is how they spend their time. John points out a decent and normal looking person, and Sherlock picks apart their deepest secrets based on the way they tie their shoes or the stains on their skirts.  
Despite his efforts, John is actually enjoying himself. True, it's what he had set out to do in the first place, but he wanted to do it _away_ from Sherlock. He wanted to prove to himself, just once, that he can function like a civilized human being without Sherlock crowding his shadow. 

_Just for a little while._ He tells himself. _Entertain yourselves just enough, and maybe Sherlock will be in a good enough mood to agree to let you have more freedom._

John's finished his drink, and he's giggling with Sherlock about the man in the out of place posh suit with a latex fetish. He notices his empty glass, and moves to stand up from the booth. "I'll get it," Sherlock clasps a hand over his wrist, stopping him from getting up.

"You pick out somebody else, I'll order you something a little nicer." Sherlock leans over, and plants a quick peck on his lips. John blinks in surprise. This is turning out way better than he expected. John grins and nods, falling back into his seat. The alcohol is buzzing pleasantly in his veins, which is why he doesn't immediately shoo away the beautiful woman that slides into the seat opposite of him. 

Her golden brown hair falls in pleasant waves around her shoulders, and her green eyes are laced with apology when she says, "I'm sorry, is this okay? Everywhere else is pretty full. I'm just waiting for my friends." John looks around, and sure enough, the late hour has the pub close to packed. People are practically elbowing each other for room, and the noise and smell of sweat and beer is quite welcome to John. If John ushers her away, she'll be left to be jostled about by the crowd, and possibly never even find her mates in all of the bodies. 

Manners take over common sense and John says, "Yeah it's fine. Take all the time you need." The sudden torrent inside his mind nearly crashes him back to sobriety. _No. No. NO! It's not fine! FUCK! What are you doing?! Get her away from here before Sherlock comes back! What the fuck are you doing?!_

She smiles in thanks, and John's heart stutters. He's not sure if it's from fear or because he's always loved a nice smile. Based on his current life, he's betting it's from fear. Fuck, how long to diffuse this before Sherlock gets back? Two minutes? Three? If he sees this, John will be lucky to feel wind on his face in the next _month_. 

"My name's Mary, what's yours?" The question brings his thoughts to a halt, and he hopes Mary can't see the abject panic in his eyes.

"John," he answers with a tight smile. She must see the apprehension, and is properly confused by it. 

"Pleased to meet you John," she says, a little carefully. Probably doesn't want to startle the psycho. "That was your boyfriend right? That just left? How long have you two been together?" John wants to laugh at the word 'boyfriend'. 'Owner' or 'Master' is probably more appropriate. But he can't say that, of course.

"Close to six months, I think." It's hard to tell. From the time he'd been in his cell, to the 'box', and to Sherlock's suite, he hadn't had access to a calender until Baker Street. By then, he'd forgotten the exact date of when they'd met. 

"Oh, well, congratulations," her smile is still sweet, but John can tell she's still wondering what he's so damned tense about. A lie comes to him then, a fucking ridiculous one, but still slightly plausible. He hates to be rude, but it's ten times better than the alternative. He looks quickly around, and still doesn't see Sherlock. Thank God, he might still have a shot at this. 

"Listen," he adopts the most apologetic tone he can, and it's sincere, "this is going to sound weird, but my boyfriend does have some self-confidence issues. He's getting over a pretty bad break-up, and he might not take too well to, well, you know." He rubs the back of his head, playing up the shy. _Please go. Issues do not even begin to cover it. And I don't know who will take the brunt of it if he sees. I hope it's me, but I can't be too sure._

"You know what?" Eliminate the problem entirely, make up an explanation to Sherlock later, "I'm actually just going to go meet up with him. You can keep the booth, it's fine. Your friends will probably be grateful for it." He gives another tight smile, and goes to find Sherlock. If he finds him, he can just give a half truth to the whole thing. She sat down, he got up before she could talk. Because he knows better. That should work. 

"John, wait," Mary suddenly grabs his hand in what looks like alarm, and John freaks out. He yanks his hand back and frantically looks around the bar. He still can't see the man, but that makes him even more nervous. He should've been back by now, so where the fuck is he? He cards a hand through his hair, the panic making him a little light headed. He looks back down at Mary, and finds something there he wishes he didn't. Recognition. Sympathy. Pity. And a quiet anger that John knows isn't directed at him at all. 

She holds her hands up in a placating gesture and says, "Sorry, I'm sorry. Listen, I can help you." John looks at her in confusion, and she smiles sadly. Because she's used to the helpless not knowing that hope exists. "I know that abusive relationships aren't just in heterosexual couples, John. You don't have to deal with this by yourself." She hurriedly looks around, like she knows what kind of trouble John is in if Sherlock comes back. John wishes he could say that the danger was just exclusive to him alone. 

"I'll go now, but my full name is Mary Morstan. Look me up and call me anytime you want, and I can make sure you will safely get away from him. You don't even have to go through a court case if you don't want to. I help run a clinic that can give you a new life. Completely anonymous, all under the table. There's no paper trail for him to follow John." She stops her little tirade to laugh abruptly. Mary thanks him, with a smile that is still beautiful while being entirely fake. John is momentarily confused before he realizes what she's doing. She's acting the part of a stranger just having an abrupt casual chat. This woman is good.

She turns to point behind herself, then follows her own finger with her gaze. She waves to nobody, then starts to walk in that direction. When she turns back around to wave goodbye, John can make out the tight concern in the corners of her eyes. John can't help his own dumbstruck wave. Her back faces him completely, and she gets lost in the swarm of bodies. John releases a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Crisis averted then, Sherlock will never know.

Heartbeat still at an all time high, John turns around, and runs straight into Sherlock. He's really too old to withstand so many heart attacks.

"The bartender really is atrocious at multitasking, as if it's that difficult to pull on a lever and fill a glass," Sherlock offers in way of explanation. He narrows his eyes, and it really shouldn't scare John so much when the man looks ridiculous with his hands full of lager. "Are you alright?" The concern is fake. John knows this intimately. It's an extremely simple, extremely effective way to test his guilt.

John hopes he's convincing when he says, "Yeah, fine," half truths, half truths are the only things that will work, "just, a woman sat down as soon as you left, kinda threw me through a loop." Best to come clean with the gender now. Sherlock might be able to tell from a fucking trace of perfume or something, and ambiguous wording would only get him into trouble.

"Oh?" Sherlock is almost hard to hear over the din of noise and John's own heartbeat. He moves to set down the glasses, and turns back to John with something dangerous lurking behind his eyes. "What did you say?"

"Just, you know, told her the seat was taken and that she should get lost. She was pretty sloshed though, turned out she didn't hear me. Otherwise I probably would've had a face full of wine. I think she spotted her mates, just hobbled off in that direction. " John points vaguely behind himself to where Mary disappeared. Sherlock briefly looks where John is pointing, and he hopes to God she isn't in the pub anymore. Sherlock's eyes come back to scan John's face, and he prays and prays that he's as convincing as he sounds in his own head.

"I'll be right back," John continues, and reaches up for his own quick peck, "just have to use the loo. Tell me all you can about the rugby blokes that just walked in when I get back, yeah?" He turns before he can see the reaction. He hopes Sherlock passes the sweat off on his brow for the stifling heat of the crowd. He enters the bathroom, and it's blessedly empty. Just outside, he can hear the dim roar of people as they cheer or boo at a game. The off-white tiling nearly sends him spinning with flashbacks of his old cell. How white had been the only color he had seen for days. How even though the room was ten times the size of this bathroom, it still felt so small. The waves of anxiety roll his stomach, and John thinks in a haze of panic that he's going to be sick. 

He rushes over to the sink, and turns on the tap. The cold water splashes the sides of his hands, and John breathes, trying to get himself under control. He looks up at his reflection, and almost doesn't recognize the deathly pale man staring back. His eyes have deep, dark circles that bring his deep blues into sharp contrast. John feels a bit of acid leak onto his tongue, and spits into the sink. It gets lost in the water, and flies down the drain. A few more deep breaths, and John leans his head against the mirror. The cool glass helps to ground him, and John can feel some of the anxiety leave his soul. He feels tired now. Tired and so, so relieved. Fuck, but that had been close. Way too fucking close. If Sherlock had come by any sooner-

 _But he didn't. He didn't and that was a good enough deflect to at least mildly convince him nothing happened. Just give yourself a minute, walk back out there, smile and laugh like the good little lapdog you are, and maybe this evening can be salvaged._ John runs a shaking hand through his hair with his forehead still pressed against the glass. In this moment, he's not sure if he's proud or disgusted with himself. John keens in his throat past the knot that's lodged there, and squeezes his eyes shut.

So he doesn't see the door open, but he definitely hears the lock slide into place.

John's eyes fly open, but he's not focusing on his reflection. He's focused on the monster in the long, black coat.

"You know, it astounds me sometimes," John's doesn't turn to face the man who just entered the door. He just stares in stark horror at Sherlock, "how much you think you can hide from me. But I suppose that is the curse of the feeble minded, to not even begin to comprehend just how much someone of a superior intellect can read based on a person's mannerisms, speech patterns, or eye movement. It also helps when you have handsomely paid and cleverly disguised bodyguards posed as innocuous patrons. " John shuts his eyes in despair.

Sherlock pulls out his phone and mockingly reads, "Mary Morstan: Counselor and Aid in Domestic Violence. There isn't a picture of course. But the very detailed descriptions and the hidden camera on one of my spies should be more than enough to go on, don't you think? She's already left the pub, according to my associates, but I don't. Really. Care." Sherlock has pushed himself from off of the wall, pocketed his mobile, and is stalking towards John. Pure, unadulterated, and furious jealousy makes those eyes glow.

John, ever the soldier, turns to face him. He's backed up against the wall, Sherlock's hands on either side of him. He doesn't look away when Sherlock practically snarls, "What I'm interested in is the little coup d'etat you two _lovebirds_ were planning." 

John doesn't hesitate, "We weren't planning anything."

"Oh really? 'Completely anonymous?' 'There won't be a paper trail?'. Is that ringing any bells in your thick skull John?" The soldier feels a chill run down his spine when Mary's kind words are thrown back at him. He searches his memory, but he doesn't remember anyone that could have been close enough to hear all of that. In his hysteric panic, John thinks of how this madman's henchmen are better equipped than his squadron had ever dared to hope.

"Though, as ever, they failed to catch the important bit. So tell me John," Sherlock growls,"what harrowing sob story did you feed her that prompted her to reach out to you? Was it the kidnapping? Was it the box? Or was it the way I make you ache for my cock when you so desperately try to deny it to yourself?"

John is more than offended by that, if only for the thought that he would ever even consider endangering someone with that knowledge. He knows exactly what this man is capable of. "I didn't tell her a damned thing, Sherlock. She figured it out on her own."

"Really," Sherlock sneers and it churns John's stomach all over again to see the sheer amount of hatred on that face, "so it's not that you're stupid enough to try and leave me, _again_ , it's that you're so damnably obvious about your disgust for me that even a nosy cunt like her can sort it out. Is that it?"

John hasn't allowed anger to spur his words in a very long time, "That's enough Sherlock. I already said I wasn't going to do anything. So get your damned knickers out of the twist they're firmly lodged in and let's go back to-"

"Oh, if you think for one second that we are going back to that cesspool you are sorely mistaken. We're leaving. Now." Sherlock grips him painfully by the wrist before John has a chance to protest. Sherlock unlocks the door and suddenly he's being hauled through a crowd of people. He doesn't fight him, not now. Causing a scene here will only make things worse. But his indignant anger is still present, even though John knows it will hardly help him at this point. He follows Sherlock closely, almost in step with his pace. This is hard to do considering the man is probably part giraffe. Any lagging on his part will hardly endear him to his captor. 

They go out into the street and the blast of cool air is a shock to him. It goes away when Sherlock practically shoves him into the backseat of the cab that he's materialized out of thin air. "Baker Street," Sherlock growls to the driver. Apparently they don't need an address. The cabbie moves onto the road and John is left in tense and angry silence. With a few measured breaths John weighs his next few options. 

Going out anymore is a bust, obviously. Going outside at all might be off the table, but he might be able to keep that even after tonight if he 'blackmails' the right way. They're almost out of food and only John knows the exact name of the store-brand tea Sherlock favors. He'll be damned to telling any shop-duty lackeys that little tidbit of information. Sherlock would have to choose between a dour John and wrong tea, or a semi-happy John and good tea. So that's sorted then. Now for the truly important and tricky bit; Mary.

Fuck. Fucking hell he's still beating himself up over how stupid he'd been, to even let her sit with him in the first place. John can't help that now. But he can do everything in his power to make sure that sweet woman will see another day. A very dangerous idea starts to take root in John's mind. He might be able to pull this off, or he's going to end up in deeper shit than before. Well, once more into the breach and all that.

They pull up to their flat without anyone having given an address, and John gets out without having to be told. It's not until Sherlock practically pushes him through the door that John realizes that neither of them have paid the cabbie. But when John looks back the vehicle is already gone, and Sherlock has slammed the door. John jolts, and spares a thought for Mrs. Hudson. It's relatively late, so she's probably asleep, which John is immensely grateful for. He doesn't need another good person to get caught in Sherlock's crossfire. 

Sherlock impatiently pushes John up the stairs, nearly resulting in him landing face first on the steps. John doesn't protest the manhandling, just picks up his pace. The low thrum of anticipation sings in his veins, and John braces himself for when they enter the living room. He turns around to watch Sherlock close the door, and notices that the man is practically quivering with repressed emotion. He turns his attention to John, and he steals a breath from the look on Sherlock's face. 

"What did I say? I said that no one was to approach us or I would publicly humiliate them and you in front of dozens of onlookers. And what do you do? You not only engage in conversation, but you let them sit near you. Touch you. You even managed to divulge something which is none of that plebeian's business!" Sherlock has come incredibly close during his tirade. For the second time that night, John is cornered between Sherlock and the wall. On either side of them are the wide windows that look out onto the London streets and the sound of people and passing cars seem a thousand miles away. 

"You. Are. Mine," Sherlock growls, and he ghosts the words over John's lips. John would be lying if he said that this wasn't having any arousing affect on him. But his body has always had an odd response to danger, and Sherlock's 'training' certainly helps things. Sherlock sees the dilation of his pupils, knows it isn't caused by the dim lighting. Without a warning, Sherlock smashes his lips over John's. 

This is certainly not like the chaste pecks they'd indulged in at the pub. Sherlock's mouth is possessive, hard and unyielding. He grips John's face with one hand, holds him still at the shoulder with the other. He barely gives John room to breathe, seem to swallow his oxygen down as he sucks on his tongue. He nips harshly at his bottom lip, and John releases a small shout from the pain. Sherlock pulls back, and deliberately licks the blood away from his red cupid's bow. 

Sherlock crowds against him once more, lapping away at the cut on John's lip. He yanks John's head back by his hair, and he winces from the grip. Sherlock's thigh places itself between John's legs, and he pushes up at the same moment that he begins suckling on John's collarbone. John knows Sherlock can feel the erection prominent in his trousers when he feels the man smile against his neck. The man teasingly grinds his leg, and John gasps from the friction. 

Now, he needs to put his plan into action now. Mary could already be in danger. 

"Sherlock, wait, wait!" He pushes the man away, and Sherlock's too stunned to counteract. Since they've moved into Baker Street, John's never denied him sex. John hopes that means this will work in his favor. Quickly, John keeps talking, "What happens to Mary?" He really has no other way of phrasing that, otherwise he would've used it. 

Sherlock goes back to looking angry, and his hands clench painfully on John's shoulders. ""What about her?" 

John knows that's a question designed to make him fail, but he plunges on, "Will you, leave her alone?" 

Sherlock's teeth are shown in his snarl and he says, "Oh, _I_ won't do anything to her. The four, sexually repressed men with misogynistic tendencies I'll send after her, I'm sure they'll do _something_."

John sharply inhales. Right. Okay. He, well, it's fucking insane to say, but he expected that. Time for Plan Stupid. 

Sherlock gives him the perfect opportunity for wording when he says, "Why, John? Willing to make another bargain for her safety? I was hoping to deprive you of sight, hearing and have you mute for a day. But after tonight I think it's not out of the question to extend it to a week." Sherlock moves his hands to pass his thumbs under John's eyes, and he's not entirely sure if the gesture was subconscious or not. 

John swallows, and says, "Leave her be, or no sex."

The silence that falls on the flat is practically palpable. 

"I would say I must've misheard you," Sherlock is the first to speak, "but my hearing is perfect, and there's nothing impeding your speech, which leads me to believe that you've gone entirely insane."

"Well," John clears his throat, "I haven't. I'm dead serious. Mary walks away unmolested," he winces at the word choice, "by you, anyone who works for you, or any associates and thereon, or I blue-ball you. Indefinitely." 

Normally, when John surprises him like this, Sherlock is pleased. It's not everyday someone surpasses his expectations. But he doesn't look like he's in awe. He looks incredulous, like John has said something incredibly stupid. This, John will admit, probably isn't too far off of the mark. 

"This is probably the most futile argument you've ever made. You do know we've had this problem before? And that I had absolutely no qualms about taking what I deemed mine?" Sherlock asks, and while his tone is mocking, there's a hard edge to it that means trouble. Sherlock's not amused by John's little act of defiance. Tough.

"I'm aware," John says, "but I really doubt you want to go back to the effort of making me submit to you." Sherlock's hand flashes out, and suddenly it's around John's throat. He can still breathe, but it's certainly impeded. John doesn't move his hands from his sides.

"Why not? Could be fun. Forcing you down. Immobilizing you, fucking you when you beg me to stop. It would be like reminiscing." Sherlock doesn't even lean closer for emphasis. He lets the seriousness of his tone and the sudden glaze to his eyes speak for him. John feels all of the air leave his body. 

"Sure," John goes for nonchalance, and almost pulls it off with a hand around his neck, "but how long would you be able to keep it up?" Sherlock's eyes narrow.

"I do know you. You enjoy a challenge, but a repeat is beyond tedious for you. And drugging me bores you, I can't be responsive if I'm practically comatose." Something flashes in Sherlock's eyes. It's too quick for John to identify, but a coil of dread curls in John's belly. Sherlock sighs, a long breath of frustration, and steps away. He turns around, carding a hand through his hair, like he's deciding his next course of action. John anxiously waits for the decided fate for a woman he barely met. He doesn't see Sherlock's grin. 

When Sherlock turns around, he plays exasperated acceptance perfectly. "You are very lucky that I haven't sent someone already. I don't think even my direct orders would have gotten those dogs off of a scent." 

John slumps, and asks to be sure, "You'll leave her alone then?" 

"Does my word even mean anything to you, John? She could be dead in an alley right now." Sherlock folds his arms in expectation of John's answer. 

And God help him, but it does matter. The man may be Satan incarnate, but he's nothing if not a man of his word. He's certainly never made an idle threat as long as John has known him. "I believe you," John says quietly. 

"Wonderful," Sherlock says with some enthusiasm, "and she will be kept out of harm. Provided, of course," Sherlock steps closer, and his leg is back between John's, "that you keep up your end of the bargain." John closes his eyes, swallows, and nods. 

He's on his knees for most of the night. 

When he wakes up, he's alone in their bed, which is far from unusual. His knees practically crackle when he stands, but aches and pains are certainly part of his normal routine now. When he slides on his faded pajama bottoms, John considers just how fucking bonkers he'd been last night. That had been the most fucking dangerous gamble he'd ever done. Not only had he laid his own well being on the betting table, but also the life of another innocent person. If Sherlock had reacted less favorably, John could've been put back in the box. With Mary's recorded screams on a fucking loop. John's stomach clenches at the thought. 

_But it's fine. You're fine. Mary's fine. You'll probably not be going outside for a little while, but that's okay. That's more than okay that's brilliant. Let's just not do that again for a while. Or ever._

He hears the tell-tale signs of Sherlock experimenting in the kitchen. He walks down the hallway to breakfast, bracing himself for anything Sherlock has to say. When he enters the kitchen, the man is stooped over his microscope, looking at something or another. Usually he keeps those things upstairs in his lab, but Sherlock is prone to bouts of laziness, so he keeps one down here in case he doesn't feel like climbing the stairs. 

John fills the kettle with water and prepares some toast. He can't help the occasional glance over his shoulder, but Sherlock isn't paying attention to him. He makes a few notes on a pad of paper beside him, and cuts up something crystalline onto a slide. John knows he's the only one who's achingly tense from all of the unspoken things hanging in the air. Sherlock, as usual, just ignores it. When it's ready, John habitually places a second cup of steeping tea beside Sherlock's arm. He sits down across from him, and picks up yesterday's paper. His eyes can hardly process a sentence. Idly, he thinks that he just burned his tongue on his tea, but he barely even has a sense of taste right now anyway. 

For minutes, John waits for the other shoe to drop. But it doesn't come. Sherlock just keeps scratching his pen over the paper, and humming at intervals. John nearly jolts out of his chair when Sherlock asks, "Can you pick up several varieties of biros when you go out?"

John is so stunned that he repeats, "Go out?"

"Hm, yes," Sherlock is really concentrated if he doesn't even mock John for his repetition, "We're almost out of milk, and you need a few ingredients if you want to try that recipe you bookmarked the other day." The one John bookmarked on his laptop, not a cookbook. He's not offended, as that is the pinnacle of useless arguments. 

"Right, um, okay," John coughs, "do you need it, right now?"

"No," Sherlock waves his hand in dismissal, "go whenever you want to, just be sure to pick up what I asked." 

"Right, okay, yeah," John stops talking before he begins babbling affirmations. Really? That's it? John almost wants to ask if Sherlock's playing a joke, but he doesn't want to push it. He's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. These days he's just incredibly suspicious about it. John places his dishes in the sink, and goes to take a shower. He showers quickly, one ear out to hear the door open. It's almost anticlimactic when nothing happens. 

John goes back into the kitchen, clean and dressed. Sherlock still hasn't moved from his spot in front of the microscope. He measures a few things into a cylinder, and mutters to himself. John keeps an eye on him the entire time he writes down what he needs from the store. Sherlock doesn't even seem to know that John is there at all. He pats his pocket a few times, to make sure he has his wallet and keys. "I'll be back in a bit," John throws out, just to test the waters. He gets nothing. No sudden protest of him leaving, no affirmation, just a few clinks of glass. 

When John is blindly placing packets of pens in his cart, he reflects. Maybe the counter-offer wasn't such a bad idea after all. Sherlock had seemed annoyed by it, of course. He's not exactly pleasant when he's not getting his way. John's certainly not keen on trying it again any time soon, but maybe it is a good ace in the hole. If Sherlock's being too unreasonable (and wow, isn't his definition of that a bit stretched) he can always play that again. But only as a last resort. 

Sherlock's probably only being a good sport about it now because he got his way easily enough in the end. But if he's sure not to overdo it, he might not have to give up pieces of himself anymore. No more agreeing to hazardous experiments. No more turning a blind eye whenever John discovers a blood-soaked shirt in the hamper. No more days spent in isolation because John moved a bloody petri dish. John reigns himself in. It's dangerous to get ahead of himself. He's still not a hundred percent sure that this will work. But John, despite his best efforts, still feels something suspiciously like hope in his cracked soul. 

He checks out, and leaves the store feeling some weight lifted off of his shoulders. When he gets home, there's a note from Mrs. Hudson saying she's taking a short vacation with her sister. Good, the woman deserves some time off. God knows John should be the only one that has to put up with him. As he comes up the stairs, he hears Sherlock still in the kitchen. The glass is clinking with more enthusiasm than usual. Either he's frustrated with the results, or he's getting close to his outcome. 

"Sherlock," John calls out, "I got about twenty different kinds, I hope that's enough-"

A long hand clasps over his mouth when he walks through the door. The arm pulls him close, and immobilizes his free arm from moving. Before John can drop the bag and get his bearings, something sharp pokes his neck. He feels a very unpleasant pressure, and the syringe is pulled out of him. The arm lets him go, and John reels away clutching the slowly swelling area .

Sherlock, of fucking course it's him, is staring at him. There's no discernible emotion on his face. Only a disconcerting concentration. Like John is an experiment he's spent years researching. 

"Sherlock!" John yells, rubbing the spot, "What the fuck did you just-" 

And then he's on fire.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day, I will write something that is of a sane fucking length. *Day Two*
> 
> I HAVE SCHOOLWORK TO DO WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?!*Day Four*
> 
> Ha! I haven't gone to sleep so this is still on time in my crazy little world! SUCCESS! *collapses**Day Six*

Not actual fire, of course. Sherlock wouldn't be able to see him suffer if he died. But his skin is hot. Too hot. God, he's burning up from the inside. As a doctor, he knows his brain can't boil inside of his own skull, but it's a close thing. He's clutching his sides, gasping, needing air to soothe the flames. No, no that's not right. Oxygen fuels fire. Should he choke himself? God, he can't think and it's too fucking _hot_. He doesn't realize he's kneeling on the ground until he looks back up at Sherlock when the man speaks.

"Well, that was interesting. I didn't think it would take affect so soon. I had it pegged for at least a minute before you felt the symptoms." John really only hears about half of that. In between the concentration of his burning body, his head feels like it's been submerged under water. His eyes itch and his tongue feels heavy. 

He tries to form words like, "What the fuck did you give me?", or "Ice, I need ice Sherlock or I'll explode, please.", or the phrase he's really itching to say, "I will see you burn in hell before I die, I swear." What comes out is a long, pained groan. Sherlock keeps talking, not heeding John's physical distress.

"What were your words? Ah, yes. 'Drugging me bores you.' Very astute John, although you would have been far more accurate if you had said sedatives instead of using the generalization. After all, I'm only bored when you're not...responsive." He says that word like a caress, and he yanks John up by his hair until he's sitting on his knees. 

The pain in his scalp is secondary, but for some reason the sensation is magnified. What should just be a tug on his head is now a crawling sensation that extends from the crown to his neck. It feels like Sherlock is gently scraping his fingernails over every inch of John's face. John wishes he could say it's a new feeling. A gasp of relief escapes him when he feels the licks of fire in his skin recede. It's slight, but John is ever so grateful for it. He mindlessly nudges his head further into Sherlock's palm, tracking the source of comfort. When nothing happens, and the flame intensifies once more, John doesn't stop the whine that is pulled from his throat.

"Do you like it?" Sherlock asks, and his hands begin petting John's short hair. Once again, the flame stutters, and John almost goes boneless. "You should have paid more attention to my experiment. Admittedly, your run-in with a crystallized and concentrated form of ecstasy is probably slim to nothing. However, as a doctor, you really should have been able to recognize the erectile dysfunction tablets. Alas, as ever dear John, you see but do not observe." Sherlock violently pulls his hand away, the action tugging out a few strands by the roots.

John falls on his hands with a soft, pained 'ah' escaping his lips. The pyre roars back, and John shudders in pain. "There are a few things mixed in of my own design. Call it a home recipe," Sherlock mocks as he twists the computer chair around to sit down. His feet extend to widely splay his legs in a provocative manner. The erection in his trousers is brought in to stark view from the pull of the fabric. He smirks, like a tyrannical ruler on a throne, while John fights the urge to writhe on the floor.

"It's certainly hard to tell if you've figured out the solution to your little dilemma, so allow me to guide you,: Sherlock leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and John stares with barely any comprehension evident in his face, “pleasure is the only way to ease the more unpleasant side effects, John. Actually, any physical touch will do, let's not sugarcoat it. I can literally do anything I like to you in this state, and you will _beg_ me for more." 

The wheels on the chair are obscenely loud as Sherlock pushes himself towards John. Suddenly, the soldier is lying on his back, his head is swimming from its impact to the floor, and there's a very shiny shoe pressing down on his midsection. Sherlock grinds down, and John is scrambling for purchase on the carpet. He's not sure if his lack of air is the wave of euphoria, or Sherlock still steadily pressing downward with his sole. The pressure eases back, and John bucks up to get more of it.

"You see, John, I was perfectly happy with our previous arrangement. Apparently, I have allowed you to grow confused over where you stand in our relationship." The foot is joined by its pair, and John's head hits the floor again. Fuck, more, he needs more. Sherlock just rests his feet, like John is part of the furniture. But the pressure is enough that John can't find the strength to wriggle free or get enough leverage to ease the pain. 

"Allow me to make it perfectly clear. You, do not, _ever_ deny me yourself. If you want a trade for some temporary and monitored freedom, or for someone's continued pathetic existence, then you offer a piece of yourself. Something creative. Something I want. Any attempt at a counter offer is an extremely stupid mistake. I hope you will learn that within the next six hours." 

A shiver wracks John's body. How long did he say?

"Oh, yes. Another little enhancement. Contributed mostly from the ecstasy. This won't end until this lesson is very much carved into your brain. And even then we will still keep going." He pulls his feet off of John's body to rest them on the floor.

"Up, John. Sit up on your knees if you want to have some relief." John complies, though it is a difficult order. His eyes are closed, and his breath is coming out in stutters. He still can't think past the burning that comes trickling from his stomach, up through his chest, and into his brain. Sherlock's hand comes back to run through his hair, and John moans. His head rolls back with the motion like an attention starved puppy. 

"My my. This is certainly better than I anticipated." The hand moves from John's hair to dance over his face. John feels the touch like trickles of water, and he belatedly realizes that he's soaking his shirt with sweat. Sherlock rubs his thumb over John's brow, gathering some of the moisture. He traces the same digit over John's lips, and he opens his mouth without a second hint. 

Gently, he suckles the thumb, and moans from the soothing sensation the action brings to his throat. Sherlock moves it slowly over John's tongue, coating it with the salt of his body. John eagerly licks it all away, searching for more. Sherlock moves it away with a wet pop, and John tries to follow it in protest. Sherlock's free hand stops John by gripping the hair at the back of his head. John's beginning to notice a pattern.  
"Ah, ah," Sherlock admonishes, and his hand goes to his zip, "Not to worry, John, this will be far more satisfying." He pulls down his fly, and unbuttons his trousers with a small twist of his fingers. He doesn't push down the fabric, just guides John closer to his crotch. 

John can smell the heady musk, and it makes him dizzier than ever. He doesn't even need Sherlock's command to, "Suck." He nuzzles his face, easily finding the hard flesh with his tongue. Sherlock still has his hand on the back of his head, but it's not a punishing twist anymore. It's just a steady weight that reminds him that any attempt at moving away would be unwise. 

He hears Sherlock hiss above him, but he doesn't lose his concentration. John licks a steady line from the bottom of his cock to the top, where he covers the head with his lips. Sherlock's hips stutter at the sudden heat. John groans around the stiffness. Sherlock was right. The presence on his tongue and the friction from Sherlock's prick helps ease some of the warmth from his mind. 

John bobs his head, skipping his routine foreplay. Usually, Sherlock likes to be teased. He likes to be brought to near incoherence before savagely fucking John's mouth. However, Sherlock thinks, he's certainly not opposed to this abrupt enthusiasm. He possessively grips John's head with both hands, not pulling on the hair this time. Sherlock lies back in the chair, eyes rolled in his head. A groan is forced from his own mouth when John goes so far down that his esophagus flutters slightly in protest. John pulls off softly, to try and get a breath, but Sherlock snarls and shoves him back down. 

John chokes again, drool falling in small rivulets down his chin. He tries to breathe through his nose, but it's forced back out of him when Sherlock continues to piston. Remarkably, John can't seem to get enough of it. He gurgles, the cock pulling almost entirely out of his mouth before reentering. John laves his tongue over the prick, trying to get more stimulation in his mouth. The more Sherlock moves, the less pain he feels. Instead, it seems to travel down to his stomach, to pool and trickle into his crotch. And yes, John checks with one hand, he's very, very hard. He moans when he paws himself through his jeans, and Sherlock comes suddenly from the vibration.

It startles the man as much as it does John. He keels over with a choked shout, still clutching John's head. He comes in spurts down John's throat. Sherlock shudders, holding John absolutely still as he rides the aftershocks in the man's warm, compliant mouth. John can feel him softening in his mouth, and he panics. Already he can feel the torturous, imaginary fire ease its way back up his spine. He realizes he still has his hand lying uselessly over his erection. When he lightly gropes, he feels the wave of bliss. Immediately, his hands turn intent. 

"John," he hears his name uttered in warning, but he doesn't pay it any heed. He needs to keep the pain away. He needs to- 

His hands wrenched away from himself, and John whines. A body pushes him back down onto his back, and his hands are pinned above his head. John bucks up, trying to get the person off of him so he can go back to getting rid of the pain. The result brings his erection right into contact with Sherlock's pelvis. He continues his wriggling. 

Sherlock hisses above him, not liking the rough treatment of his sensitized penis. He pins John's hips down with his thighs, and the man practically howls from the loss of friction. 

"Good God, you are going to be absolutely impossible," but there's no heat in Sherlock's tone. He's riveted, massively enjoying watching his stoic John come to pieces underneath him. John doesn't respond, just thrashes his head from side to side when no stimulation is forthcoming. He keens, feeling the heat build behind his eyelids. God, he can't stand this. He's going to die this way. He needs to come. He needs to make this go away.

Sherlock moves both of John's hands to one of his own, keeping them pinned above his head. His free hand moves down to stroke slowly over John's trousers. A gasp is forced from him, and his eyes shoot open without focusing on anything. John is achingly hard, and Sherlock provides very little relief. His fingers are bare ghosts of sensation between the layers of fabric. John fights to get more, but Sherlock's weight on his hips and hands makes him immovable. He's forced to take whatever Sherlock gives him, which is not enough.

Abruptly, Sherlock switches tactics. What was once teasing touches are now firm slides of his palm around John's erection. John groans, shaking with the sudden onslaught. No longer does he feel like he's in pain. He feels ungodly overheated, and close to the greatest orgasm he's had in his life. Sherlock keeps stroking in that steady pace, and John, unable to move, can only utter please over and over again. Close, God he's so close. And then John comes right in his trousers from two more strokes. His voice is unhindered, and releases a broken string of groans. He whimpers, the pain feels completely absent from his system. Leaving him riding several waves of relief and pleasure. John begins to crest down, close to incoherent from satiation. 

Then the process starts all over again. 

The few moments of bliss from before make it ten times worse. The tenderness in his groin from the orgasm combined with the heat makes him chafe in his trousers. John's resulting whine is pitiful instead of pleading. Sherlock lets go of John's wrists and stands over the fetal man. He watches dispassionately as John attempts to bring his body back under control. He had told John, this wouldn't wear off for another five and half hours. 

An orgasm will only aid him for so long, and the endorphins will only intensify the burn. But John will have no choice but to seek out stimulation, as it is the one thing that his mind can recognize as a quick-sure way of relief. This may be Sherlock's best idea yet.

John's mind is so preoccupied with the pain that he doesn't notice Sherlock bend down to half carry him to their bedroom. In fact, he's not even remotely coherent until his arms are roped together behind his back and he's naked. The cool air on his sweaty body make him shiver. He wishes that one of the windows could be open. A strong breeze might give him a synthetic caress that would help him without bringing him off.

One of Sherlock's long hands smooths over his back, and John forgets his thoughts. The man moves to sit behind him, and Sherlock parts John's cheeks with his hands. John flinches from the exposure, burying into the mattress with his face. But he can't ignore the flush of pleasure it brings when Sherlock traces a finger over his hole. John moans, shifting and clenching his fists. He's still sensitive from his orgasm, but Sherlock doesn't stop. 

"The restraints are there to keep you from touching yourself," Sherlock says, half to himself since John is lost in his body, "you may not be able to come for a little while yet, but that won't stop your instinctual response." Sherlock's finger slips into the tight ring of muscle, and the cool slickness informs John that Sherlock had time to lube his fingers. When did that happen? 

Slowly, Sherlock begins fucking him with one finger. John moans helplessly into the sheets. More, God it's too much while being not enough. Idly, he wonders if anyone can short out from sensory overload. Time will tell, he supposes. Sherlock adds a second finger, and John buries further into the sheets until its hard to breathe. 

Sherlock scissors his fingers, stretching the muscle. John feels simultaneously full and uncomfortably empty. He shifts his knees, trying to thrust back, but Sherlock stops him with his free hand on his hip. This goes on for several minutes, with Sherlock never once picking up the pace. John feels the fire inside of him alternate between being abated and being fueled. He's been continually making whining noises inside of his dry throat. When Sherlock pulls back his fingers to once again breach him at a snail's pace, John doesn't stop himself.

"Sherlock! Please! I can't-I can't-Please!" the fingers brush deliberately against his prostate, and John cries out from the over stimulation. He's actually not sure what he wants. More pleasure? Less? Everything is too much.

"Ah, you're coherent again. That's a surprise. I thought you would continue to be insensible this far in." So, Sherlock really was talking to himself. If John had brain functions, he would probably say something smarmy to that. Sherlock almost completely pulls out his fingers, and John whines in protest.

"Not to worry John, this is only temporary. I have something much more fulfilling planned before I'm able to fuck you like you so desperately want." Sherlock fits in a third finger, and John forgets what Sherlock was talking about. He can still feel the sweat falling in rivulets down his back, and he's absurdly glad Sherlock took off his clothes. They'd probably be ruined beyond belief. 

Sherlock narrows and spreads his fingers inside of John, sufficiently stretching him. Really, Sherlock could do this for the duration of the drug's shelf life. But he does have a few things to attend to, and knowing that John will be in here, helpless and aroused beyond capacity, sends a chill running down his spine. 

Sherlock pulls his fingers out completely, and John abuses his strung out vocal chords once more. No, no he wants more pleasure now. Bring it back. He knows there's something unpleasant about to happen, even if he's forgotten what it was. There, a steady burn, spreading from his abdomen up to his chest. It wasn't there a moment ago. He wants it gone. Please, make it stop.

"John, stop squirming or I'll have to tie your legs down." John doesn't hear him. Can't hear him. He hears the crackle and roar of the flames from his own body. He remembers watching the devastation of a forest fire on the telly once. He thinks of what kind of wreckage his own insides will have to face. He whimpers in fear and growing pain.

Sherlock sighs, and rolls his eyes slightly. Honestly, a little cooperation wouldn't go amiss. He roughly pushes John down until he's flat on his stomach, then grabs one ankle and reaches for the restraints attached to the end of the bed. He tightly buckles one foot to the post, then goes to the other. The whole time, John has been too caught up in his turmoil to even realize he's been immobilized even further. Soon, John's completely buckled down, and can't get the leverage needed to even bring up his midsection.

John only realizes how trapped he is when Sherlock spreads him again with one hand, bringing up something hard and silicone with the other. He tried to shift away or towards it, he's not sure. But then the buckles clinked around his ankles, and John keened low in his throat. He tried to turn his head to see what Sherlock was doing, and could only get a good view of his shoulder before his neck started to cramp.  
Slowly, Sherlock inserts the black plug. This is certainly not the first time John has endured one of these, but this one is new. It's short and conical, flaring off into a wide base that will keep John full, without any stimulation to his prostate. Ideal for keeping him on the edge of orgasm, without fully tipping him over. 

John moans and squirms, repeatedly hitting his head on the mattress from the overflow. From his arse to his hips he feels a steady increase of pleasure, while his top half remains on fire. The heady mix causes his vision to blur at the edges. John wonders if he's going to pass out. 

With one last push, the toy sits firmly inside of John. He waits, expecting more to enter him. But despite the wide expanse of the toy, John doesn't feel any stimulation to his prostate. He clenches mindlessly, and his breath comes out in a stutter. The muscle is stretched to full capacity, but its just a weight. There's nothing there that even hints that he'll receive pleasure from this. John squirms from side to side, attempting to slide the thing further or dislodge it. But it stays firmly put. His penis is still sensitive from earlier, and his rubbing is slightly chafing. John hisses at the pain, and feels the dangerous heat return to his backside. When he flexes again, the heat abates, but reminds him that he's dreadfully aroused and empty. 

Sherlock watches John's flailing with a smile. Even now, he marvels at the man's capacity for levelheadedness. Anyone else would be reduced to a gibbering, pleading mess. Instead, John seems to take everything that is given to him, and use it to his best advantage. Time to see what shatters his resolve. Time to see how long it takes to make him _scream_. Sherlock gives one fond pat to John's behind, then shuts the door behind him when he leaves.

The darkness and the click of the door disorients John. After clearing his throat, John rasps out, "Sherlock?" but there is no response. He's alone in here. Alone with the heat and his insatiable need to feel _something_. John plops his head back onto the bed. He's resigned to wait this out, to ride the waxing waves of pain and pleasure until the drugs dissolve in his system. Then it starts to get worse.

The sweat from his body dampens the sheets below him, making it an uncomfortable mess. He pants into the air, his breath echoed back to him. The familiar sound makes him flash back to his time in what he affectionately dubs "The Coffin", and he tries to shut those memories away. The persistent stick of the fabric gets to him, and John shifts, trying to find a dry spot. The result makes him pull on his ankle restraints, and his thrashing twists his shoulder into an uncomfortable angle. John whimpers, only now realizing the strain he's putting on his war wound. The muscle ache transforms inside his brain, becoming a message of repeating that action instead of avoiding it. 

The pinch in his shoulder gets lost in the heat of his drugged mind, making some of it appear to fade away. Desperate to stop the rising inferno, John twists and lands on his shoulder. He cries out at the combined pain, but sighs a breath of relief when his left side is devoid of internal fire. He twists his upper half back and forth, attempting to repeat the action. Every slide against the sheets, every nerve protesting, all keep the worst of it at bay. John builds up his defenses like a dam, but the looming sense that it will eventually come crashing down fills him with dread.

He continues thrashing for a short while, pulling on the abused muscle even though the doctor inside of him tells him he will sorely regret it later. He stops when he hears the door click open again. Warm light floods in from the hallway while Sherlock says, "Ah, how forgetful of me."

The words are lost on John, who proceeds to twist on the sheets. He hears Sherlock advance towards the bed, but doesn't stop building up against the drugged pain. Then a bony hand is pressing down on his shoulders, preventing him from moving. John grunts, trying to twist away from the impediment. He has no leverage, and gets nowhere. A length of rope is suddenly under his armpit and around his shoulder, and John suddenly understands what Sherlock is doing.

He's making absolutely sure that John will have no choice but to focus on the heat. 

Panic overrides his dignity, and John protests aloud, "Sherlock, stop. Don't!" He is, of course, ignored. Sherlock winds the cord tighter, preventing movement but allowing blood flow. He secures it to the posts of their headboard, and then moves to other shoulder. Soon, John is lying face down on the bed, with his only available actions being to breathe and shift his head.

John tries to pull down, to shift the abrasive material against his skin, but he stays damnably put. He leans up into Sherlock's brief caress on top of his head, and whimpers when it's suddenly pulled away. The footsteps leave his side, and John speaks without meaning to, "Sherlock. Sherlock, please. Don't leave. I'm sorry."

And he is, he is, he is, he is. He regrets the stupid plan, wishes he could've come up with a better one. He doesn't regret saving Mary's life, of course not. But he wishes he could've been smarter about it. Because this is too much. He can't stand this. He's nearly been driven insane by the dark, and he doesn't want this on top of it. He can live without the connotation of agonizing arousal every time someone shuts off a light, thanks.

The man stops in his tracks, his hand on the door. Hope surges through John, that maybe he won't have to deal with this alone for God knows how long. That same hope crashes (as it has done so many, many times) when Sherlock minutely shakes his head. The click of the door latch is very loud, and the darkness seems thicker than before.

John groans pitifully into the black. His shortened breathing is the only sound he hears, and he clenches and opens his eyes to adjust his vision. It doesn't really help. There's nothing for him to look at anyway. All he has to focus on is the burn slowly making its way up his spine. It fans out, the tendrils are like Sherlock's inquisitive touch. 

John shifts. The clink of his restraints and the slide of the rope pull him back to reality. The painful pricks of the drugs bring him out of it. He loses his mind in the haze. When the burn reaches his belly, John is babbling to himself. Nonsensical gibberish that even he can't make out. It snakes down to his calves, around his feet, and John thinks of being exposed in the sunlight. Of doing this, exactly this on the rooftop, but without the drugs. Of him, the sunlight, the wind, and London teeming beneath him. 

Being entirely exposed to the elements while completely hidden from the ignorant masses. The raw white hot heat of the sun beating down on his unprotected skin. John could feel it in Afghanistan like it was tangible. The heat would become so corrosive that it seemed to make your skin bubble. He feels that same sensation now, the way it slithers under his skin is uncomfortably familiar. It feels like its stealing away his humanity and replacing it with fire. 

John whimpers when it coils around his organs, makes his heart beat faster and constrict his lungs. He breathes deeply to counteract the wild notion that he's about to suffocate. It builds to a molten core inside of his chest, and John bucks into the mattress, trying to dislodge it. 

Of course that does nothing, but he does it again anyway. Still he can feel it spreading, turning his veins to rivers of magma. The rub over his nipples and groin are no longer adequate distractions. There is nothing but fire. He licks his lips, bringing no respite to the chapped skin. Distantly, he remembers the thing lodged inside of him, and clenches down. But that offers nothing as well. He's stuck. 

He sobs Sherlock's name brokenly into the air, and there is no answer.

***

Sherlock, in the mean time, has managed to adequately complete one experiment. It's not nearly as fascinating or satisfying as the one currently writhing on his sheets, but it did offer valuable insight into the decay rate of human eyeballs in sulfuric acid. He'll have to try it on living tissue next time. 

An hour's anonymous chat with a Colombian drug lord has secured his control over half of the hemisphere's cocaine distribution. He's even managed to sort through some of the dull paperwork Jim insists is "part of the job". 

All the while, John's cries have become more pitiful. Sherlock is sure that the man doesn't even know how loud he's being. With a glance at his watch, Sherlock decides to give it another twenty minutes. Should be enough to reduce him to a senseless bundle of desperation.

He passes the knowledge of the Colombian share onto Jim, who will take care of the distribution. Sherlock never has the patience to figure out who is passably intelligent enough to handle something like this. Sherlock checks his watch for the third time, then decides that fifteen is suitable enough. 

He fills up an empty plastic bottle with cold water from the tap, and goes back to the bedroom. When he opens the door, Sherlock steals a breath.

John's head is away from the door, and he doesn't even seem to notice the light. All of his muscles are as taught as one of Sherlock's bow strings. The sweat makes his skin glow from the golden swathes of light. From this distance, Sherlock can barely make out the trembling, but he sees his back flex from every shaky inhale and exhale. 

The unintelligible murmurs become clearer when John turns his head to face the door. His eyes remain unfocused, staring at Sherlock's silhouette. Over and over again, he whispers please. 

The sound of plastic crinkling in Sherlock's grip is shockingly loud. He closes the door behind him, and turns the lights on slowly. They're not to their highest capacity, leaving deep shadows in the corners of the room. The illumination is meant for John, since Sherlock's night vision is something he highly prides in. He wants John to see what will happen to him, wants him to remember everything without the darkness chasing away the details. Admittedly, the drugs will blur some things together, regardless.

Sherlock walks slowly over to the bed, as if John is a trapped and frightened animal. He sets the bottle on the nightstand, and John eyes it hungrily. The condensation gathers and falls in one long, wet trail, and he licks his lips. Sherlock unbuckles John's ankles, lovingly trailing his hands up and down the taught calves. John winces from the touch, the dry cool of Sherlock's skin being a sharp contrast. 

Carefully, Sherlock twists John onto his back. The ropes above his head cross over each other, but John barely registers the dig into his skin. He's too focused on the nudging of the toy along the skin of his anus. John's head digs back into the pillows, fighting the rise of pleasure that sears through his body. Sherlock utters soothing words above him as he moves to straddle his thighs. 

When he's looking down on John's scrunched face, he reaches easily over for the water. He brings the end to John's lips and says, "Drink." John opens his eyes long enough to see what is held to him, and obediently slurps down the liquid. 

The action brings Sherlock back to when he'd imprisoned John inside of the box. He had fed him, watered him, bathed him with his own hands. John was wholly his to take care of. John was completely under his control. Just as he should be. Although, the small opening in the casket hadn't offered the lovely sight before him now. 

John, in this state, pays no heed to the man that has reduced him to this. He just drinks, the bob in his throat a mesmerizing and familiar sight. It is similar to when John wraps his beautiful lips around Sherlock's length, and sucks like he was born for it. Sherlock shudders, his trousers are suddenly too tight and stifling in the room. 

The shifting dislodges the water, and John trails after it, a whine of protest escaping him. The sound sends another jolt down Sherlock's spine. Watching John's sweaty body strain against his bonds after his source of hydration sparks his cruel ingenious. 

He leans forward, placing a hand by John's head. The man doesn't even notice the sudden closure of distance, he's still focused on the hand that holds the bottle. A wicked smile plays over Sherlock's mouth, and he brings it forward to his own lips. John watches desperate and painful envy in his rapt attention. Never taking his eyes off of John's, Sherlock takes a long drag from the bottle. 

The man twists beneath him, trying to get closer. Sherlock places a hand on the burning chest, stilling him. The race of John's heartbeat pumps loudly in Sherlock's ears, and he swallows more down. The bottle is close to half empty when he pulls it from his lips with a soft exhale. 

John pushes up into Sherlock's touch, and there are tears evident in the corners of his eyes. Instead of feeling pity, Sherlock feels heady. Only he can reduce this strong, honorable man this low. With deliberate clumsiness, Sherlock pours some of the water over John's collarbone, well out of the reach of his tongue. He places the bottle on the table, watching the water rivulet down on the tan skin.

John shouts from the combined shock and helplessness of his situation. Sherlock smirks, whispers a completely insincere, "Oops," and leans down to follow the trails with his tongue. The heat of John's skin quickly warms the water, and his tongue laves away any remaining cool water. He lips and nips his way across John's collarbone, and he arches into the touch. 

The fire is chased away in short sunbursts from the blunts of Sherlock's teeth. The precious water soaking into the sheets is lost in memory. John arches further, offering more of his skin for Sherlock's perusal. Never letting up with his tongue, Sherlock's hands reach between them, trailing over John's chest. His long fingers dance over John's nipples, bringing them to hard nubs. Teasingly, he flicks over them with his dry fingertips. When they're filled with blood, he pinches them hard. 

John keens, shaking. The sharp twist flows from his chest to flutter in his belly, curling his toes. Sherlock repeats the movement in a different direction, and John is rapidly forgetting where he is. His hips cant up, his erection seeking stimulation. But Sherlock is positioned just so that all he thrusts into is air. When he slams back down in frustration, it jostles the toy that he completely forgot about. John chokes, his eyes shooting open. His fists clench underneath him from the shock to his body. When he's able to focus again, Sherlock is chuckling darkly in front of his face. 

"Something the matter, John?" His fingers twist again, and John loses all of the air in his lungs. "Is there something bothering you?" He leans down to lavish his attention on John's neck, not letting up on the his hand's torturous pulls.

John digs down with his freed feet, trying to get away from the punishing twists. But it still persists, and the combined heat of his body and Sherlock's breath is too much. He needs more. He needs less. He needs this to _stop_. 

"Sherlock," John whimpers, if he had been his normal self, he would've been mortified at the sound, "please, make it stop. Please, I can't-I can't stand this. Please stop." 

Sherlock's palms smooth over the dark red nubs, and he murmurs into John's skin, "Ah, you're still not getting it John. Though, in your state, I suppose it should be admired that you can even form words." His lips trail down from the neck, to the collarbone, to John's abused chest. He latches on with his lips, gently flicking the flesh with his tongue. 

John comes down from his crest of painful ecstasy to realize Sherlock has continued talking, "This is not about you. Do you think I drugged you because you needed a night of absent inhibitions? Did you think this was about giving you an unparalleled night of exhilarating pleasure and torment? No. This is about me, John. About reminding you that, in the end, it will always be about me." The breath ghosts over John's nipples, and he whimpers. Savagely, Sherlock bites into the tissue of the areola. He sucks, hard enough to leave a large bruise. Sherlock speaks, aware that John can barely hear him now, "Your pleasure is mine John. It is always mine, and if you ever try to deny me what is mine again, I will up the dosage. Perhaps even add a hallucinogenic." He sounds musing, like he's willing to try it anyway, but moves on to the second nipple before he has time for the thought to cement. 

It continues like this, slow, torturous. Sherlock laves his tongue over John's chest, his stomach, his navel. He parses out the soothing sensation with large sucks and bites. Finally, after his tongue is done dipping into John's bellybutton for the dozenth time, he moves onto John's cock. He kneels on the end of the bed, leaning down for better access with his hands parting John's thighs. The hot flesh stands rigid, a tiny drop of precome leaking from the tip. Sherlock darts his tongue out to lick it away, and John shouts. Mentally, Sherlock calculates how long he's had the drugs in his system. It should be reaching its peak now. Any stimulation at this point will morph together in the pain. Sherlock grins, and takes John into his mouth. 

_Hot. So. hot too hot too hot too hot GOD MAKE IT STOP! _John doesn't scream, he doesn't have it in him to scream.__

__His voice cracks past his throat, and his hips buck up. Sherlock moves his hands to still John's hips, and bobs his head. His saliva coats John's prick, and he moves off long enough to lick from base to tip. John's a blathering mess up above him, but he doesn't pay attention. This is far too enthralling. He moves one hand to fondle John's sac, the flesh there is a similar feverish hot. He sucks on the head, tonguing the slit in tiny darts. He opens his mouth wider to take in the flesh, and slides down in one effortless move._ _

__He's had a lot of practice. Performing fellatio on John is a favorite out of all of their sexual activities._ _

__John makes a sound like he's been shot, and suddenly he's coming down Sherlock's throat. Sherlock almost pulls back from surprise, but stays pointedly down, swallowing it all. The taste is...unsavory this time. Must be the drugs. Sherlock leans up and wipes his mouth on his sleeve._ _

__He steps onto the floor, watching John zone as he undresses. Whenever the man's eyes blink open, the pupils are the widest they've ever been. The dim lighting helps to darken their color to an almost hazel. One day, Sherlock would like to hire/blackmail a professional painter, leave them in a room where only John's eyes are visible, and make them create a masterpiece._ _

__Even when everything is pooled at his feet, John still hasn't focused on him. He kicks them away, uncharacteristically careless with his finely tailored clothes. Quickly, he retrieves the lube, and sets it on the end of the bed. He moves John so that he is back on his front. He just pants in response, not even noticing the shift in position. He does begin to squirm when Sherlock starts slowly removing the plug. John is too tired and professionally restrained to shift away, but in his hind brain, he knows what's coming. He knows how much this will burn him on the inside. Instincts kick in, and he avidly protests, "No! No no no!" It's the only word he can manage, and he digs his face down, squeezing his eyes shut, childishly blocking out what is to come._ _

__Sherlock impatiently shifts John onto his knees, continuing the extraction of the toy. "Hush, John," Sherlock hisses, "I already told you, this isn't about what you want. It never has been." The toy finally dislodges with a loud squelch. It has done its job, John's hole is obscenely stretched. Without a thought to where it lands, Sherlock tosses the heap of silicone behind him. When he presses a finger to the opening, it is still slick with lube. Sherlock's erection gives a small twitch, and he bites on the flesh of John's rump in an abrupt surge of sadism. John gasps out, his body now reduced to a raw nerve._ _

__Sherlock's teeth pull back, leaving a deep red indentation in the skin. He uncaps the lubricant, and slicks up his cock and his fingers. Without preamble, he shoves two fingers inside of John, though the toy has done an exemplary job of stretching him out. John will be incredibly sore after this, but he doesn't want to cause irreparable damage. With some perfunctory preparation, Sherlock shifts John forward on his knees. The man is too far gone to even fight back. It brings back fond memories._ _

__Kneeling between John's thighs, Sherlock guides himself forward, and slides in. John is so slick and open that he's met with no resistance. Sherlock grips John's hips to ground himself against the onslaught. John's body temperature is soaring, and the heat causes delicious spasms in Sherlock's abdomen. Meanwhile, John can barely distinguish one thought from another. Everything is white. He's not sure if it's from pain or over wrung pleasure._ _

__When Sherlock's breathing is under control, he pulls out, and thrusts back in. He's not as hurried in his strokes this time. He wants to draw this out. More for John's sake than his own. Inch by inch, he watches himself slide out of John's body, then disappear again. When John's whimpers become repetitive, he pulls out enough to just leave the head, then slams back in one stroke. _That_ evokes a vocal response from both parties. _ _

__With a throaty growl, Sherlock repeats the action. The sound of his hips meeting flesh blends in with John's pitiful grunts. Sherlock grips tighter onto John's hips, digging in with his fingernails. He picks up speed, the imminent rise of orgasm urging him on. Every thrust into John's pliant, helpless body coils the heat inside of him ever tighter. He has enough frame of mind to shift his position slightly, angling himself higher while pushing down on John's hips. When his thrusts glide into one smooth motion, his prick repeatedly rubs John's prostate._ _

__The stimulation is too much for John, and despite the evidence that he knows this can't happen, he experiences a dry orgasm. One more cry is dragged from his throat, and his body shudders from climax. His penis, half-erect, gives a futile jerk. With not even precome escaping the slit. The torrent of endorphins is too much, and John blacks out with Sherlock still inside of him._ _

__The man is not that far behind, the combination of heat, John's futile protests and the unwilling spasms of his body have him coming with a loud, "John!" His hips slam, and he spills his semen deep into the lax form. Sherlock rides the aftershocks, shaking from the force of it. It isn't until he pulls out that he realizes John has gone completely unconscious. He wheezes a wry chuckle, letting John slump back onto the bed when he lets go. Before he collapses next to his lover like he wants, Sherlock undoes all of the ropes and unbuckles the cuffs._ _

__He eases the stiff joints to rest John's arms on either side of himself. Whenever John feels extra stiffness, his face will be tight for the whole day. Sherlock doesn't like that taste of discomfort unless he wants it there. His masterful fingers make quick work in easing out some of the tension in John's shoulders. When he digs a little too deep, John groans, eyes still closed, and shifts away._ _

__Hm. Seems the drugs are still in effect. But a complete shut down of the conscious mind eases the major symptoms. Interesting. If he ever does this again, he'll have to find a way to work around that. A stimulant perhaps? He lies next to John, his thoughts slowly narrowing in on sleep. With a possessive hand on the back of John's neck, Sherlock finally follows the pull into slumber._ _

__When they wake up, the drugs will have left John's system. He'll be unbelievably sore and exhausted. He'll drink a whole jug of water when he manages to creak out of bed. With labored movements, he'll take a cold shower to chase away any remnants of heat. And when Sherlock steps in to join him, he won't protest. Not even when the man traces his fingers over John's abused hole, and brings him to a painful orgasm with just his hands._ _

__Days later, John does see Mary again. He's back to his old routine of a Tesco run (with quite possibly a bodyguard following him, paranoia is hard to disregard these days), and he spots the woman getting into a cab across the street. He pretends his stare is looking for a cab of his own, as he raises his arm into the air. As she slides into her seat, John is struck with a daydream that leaves a sharp pang in his heart. He imagines dashing across, sliding into the seat with her. Explaining his situation. Her sympathetic, kind features hell bent on saving this broken knight. They're whisked off into the sunset with the help of people trying to make a difference. They create new lives, act out as husband and wife for a cover. Eventually, feelings develop, and their relationship becomes real. They are content, him: a beloved village doctor; her: the kind wife that helps at the soup kitchen and eases the traumatic loss of loved ones. There is a dog. A lovely yellow cottage with a quaint garden that is alive with bees in the summer. They die old and they die together._ _

__His cab pulls up, and hers pulls away. He will never see her again._ _

__It strikes him later, as Sherlock is pouring spiced honey over his chest ("It matches your skin tone so wonderfully, John."), that Mary is alive because of him. His embargo on sex was a spectacular failure, but it got Sherlock distracted. He didn't remember to be jealous when he was teaching John a lesson. Broken toy soldier was able to save the damsel in the end._ _

__In the quiet hours of the night, when Sherlock is asleep or in another room, John lets himself smile._ _

__He lets himself believe it's enough._ _


End file.
